Two lungs inflate, then release
what no one but you can see.
The exhale is wet crimson chiffon,
tattered, tugged by the
scarf-swallower. Ta-da. Ta-da!
Hold your applause.
This is how it begins. Open another bottle
of wine, stroke a furred head, take it slow.
This is the way, on this night
of violent sky
with angry glitter and sound unfit
for the little ones, who know better.
Meanwhile, the nighttime sky braces itself
and peels away from the Earth, preparing
to be torn by unwelcome, unnatural
light. The dark has no say in the matter,
not on this night. Pray for it, a little.
You, on the other hand:
Do what you must and grieve
for whatever it is that you
have just lost, even though
you cannot speak it aloud.
You know lost.
You will be in bed by ten,
this time. Who is to say this
is not for the best?